


disarm you with a smile

by songbirdonvoyage



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Non-Canonical Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Primrose Everdeen as the Victor of the 74th Hunger Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 16:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14500686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songbirdonvoyage/pseuds/songbirdonvoyage
Summary: Let them drown you in their funeral flowers.Let them sprinkle petals at your wake.Let them scatter your ashes in a sea of primroses.





	disarm you with a smile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justcallmecappy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justcallmecappy/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Title taken from the song Disarm by The Smashing Pumpkins!
> 
> Many thanks to cappy for beta-reading this for me, it's amazing to have an awesome writer like her to read my drabble, appreciate it a lot!

.

.

.

Peeta tells you stories, lots of them.

When the both of you are on the train to the Capitol, when you retreat into your room after a day of training but are unable to fall asleep... whether it is a coping mechanism for the Games, or he is just being his genuine sweet self, you can always count on him to tell you about something.

Sometimes, he will tell you things that you already know—how he adores your sister; how he remembers the birds will stop when she sings, just like how they did for your father.

Sometimes, he will also tell you things that you do not know—how his father wanted to marry your mother, but she ultimately chose to marry your father instead; how his brothers couldn't look him in the eyes as they bid him farewell.

"Look at us, blond hair, blue eyes.", he would always joke. "We might have been siblings, if my dad had married your mum."

To him, you are a little sister that he would never have, and you believe in him.

Even as you lay prostrate on the floor, sobbing as you incoherently repeat the same apology to his father when you return to District 12 alone, you still believe in him.

 

* * *

 

"Primrose Everdeen!"

You do not know Effie's voice has that sort of effect—like a punch, solid and square, right in the guts.

You walk up to the podium and you feel it in their eyes: mute resentment boring holes at the ducktail behind your blouse. A classic District 12 defiance, they mourn for your frail physique and most importantly, your frail youth.

"Prim! " You hear your sister's scream ringing in the hollowed square. "Primrose! "

All cameras turn to her, except for one lens training right on your face, a close-up view to examine, _break down_ your reaction for the whole nation.

You swallow a strangled cry and continue forward, heavy footsteps crying out for a miracle. 

Your sister's gaze meets yours. 

_No_ , you scream. _No, Katniss._

The Peacekeepers march in, putting everything unsaid to a halting end. Their vice grips contort around her body; they are using all their might to pull her back. 

You spot Gale, olive skin and black hair amid the snow white uniforms. You can barely make out the words forming on his lips, but you know they are not meant for you.

At District 12, it all renders down to utilities, statistics, _results_. Katniss Everdeen is important. She has mouths to feed, places to be, hearts to win. The equation of losing your sister is undeniably greater than your own loss.

So, _it's okay_ , you think. _It's okay._

Your blond hair and blue eyes are more than just a reminder, a foil, a regret.

 

* * *

 

You refuse visitation from everyone else, already knowing what they would tell you.

Your sister comes in with a fiery hug. Your hands instinctively wrap around her, a tight grip as you inhale the familiar scent of pine and sunbath.

"You can do it, Prim.", she says, voice drenched with fierce determination.

Your mother's eyes say otherwise.

"Make them fall in love with you, like you always do."

Except, you know deep down that there will no longer be enough fondness to keep you alive.

Then, Peeta Mellark walks in, evidently exhausted and wrung dry of goodbyes.

He sees you, still in the arms of your sister and he smiles. A warm, light smile, not unlike the ones many have given you throughout the years.

Except this time, this smile may make a difference after all.

 

* * *

 

When you emerge as a Victor, Cinna dresses you in an evening gown identical to the one you wore during the Interviews.

The thorny vines on the dress are now decorated with blooming roses. _Flaming roses._ Blood red, proud and burning bright.

An evergreen forest on fire.

"Time to show the world what you are made of, Primrose."

Flickering tongues of flame cast harsh shadows on your deep-set eyes, dusted in charcoal black and shimmering gold. The familiar blue morphs into something sinister as the glow waver, brightens and dims.

You do not hate it entirely.

You walk into the spotlight—you hear roars of applause and catch Caeser Flickerman's twinkling blue grin—leaving behind you a wake of bodies and a long trail of blood.

Peeta's blood is the brightest of them all.

You are dazzled by its intensity.

 

* * *

 

It turns out you are more dangerous than your merchant look gives you credit for.

The number 8 flashes on the TV screen. Effie's face is nothing short of entertaining to look at, it almost makes you laugh.

Haymitch laughs, instead. "Now we are talking."

After a heavy swig of alcohol from the bottle, he finally looks at you dead in the eyes.

He no longer sees a casualty, but an _opportunity_.

Peeta scores a 9. He gives you a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

You try to find solace within his eyes, a calming pool of blue.

... and all you see is the inevitable red.

 

* * *

 

Sixty seconds on the metal launch pad. It is plenty of time for you to take in the scenery.

Flat plains packed with hard rocks and dirt, a glimmer of water that is far off the horizon, forest that lays thick in a respectable distance...

The golden cornucopia glints with an ominous, deadly vigor.

You are ever so slightly jealous over the fact that this arena will have been _perfect_ for your sister.

Except, it is now your game.

You'll just have to work it out, work it your way.

 

* * *

 

By the time you find Peeta, lying at the forest clearing all mangled and broken with a spear in his stomach, you know it is too late.

You hold your District partner in your arms. His huge body is lighter than the last time you hug him. _Too light._ He tries to speak, only to have warm red liquid gush out from his severed neck like a flood to his imminent ending. _Too much blood, too much._

You breathe in tearful sobs, trying to coax him to respond. Anything, anything will do. You know he cannot see you anymore; you recognize those eyes back in your mother's apothecary. The lights will be gone, soon.

He forces a smile, all too familiar and broken. Then, he reaches for your face, putting a trembling thumb on your lips.

You freeze, unable to react.

You know the gesture: he wants to hear something from you. Anything.

He tries to speak once again. It is too painful to look at him trying so hard.

You do not inherit your father's gift of a voice; it goes to your sister. At most, it will just be a mimicry, not unlike a mockingjay. But hell, you are dead set to get this right.

Raspy tunes erupt from your lips, barely a whimper yet clear enough for the ears. The camera whirls in, zooming closer to capture your little show.

You know the last thing your sister wants to hear is the little secret between the both of you fully displayed on national TV, to be scrutinized and ridiculed for the Capitol's amusement.

Peeta deserves this at the very least, though. He deserves the sweet promises woven between the lyrics, he deserves the daises braided between his blood-stained hair.

The boy who brings you hot chocolate and cuddles you through sleepless nights in the Capitol deserves _everything_ more than anyone in this wretched arena.

 

* * *

 

Your sister has always said that you have the blood of your healer mother flowing through your veins. You save lives; she reaps them. That is how it works.

What she does not know is that a pair of hands that are capable of healing is always capable of killing.

You always know what goes into your mouth, and what goes on the tip of blades.

... and you know exactly where it would hurt the most.

That is why when Cato walks in with a triumphant grin, Peeta's knife stuck in his bloodied back, you do not spare him the mercy and grace you had shown Peeta.

 

* * *

 

You hear that the primrose is now a funeral flower in District 2.

You laugh—you laugh so hard you start to heave. And then, you cry.

 

* * *

 

Despite your sister and your mother's protests, you stay by yourself at the Victor's Village.

You know they feel more comfortable staying at the Seam, in close proximity to the Hawthrone family. After all, they are the anchor of each other's lives while you disappeared to the Games.

Somewhere deep down, you are glad that they will be strong, _alive_ even without you.

Sometimes, they will visit you at your new, gleaming home, even bringing Buttercup and Lady with them. For a short moment, you feel like everything is normal, everything is still the same.

Not completely sterile, manufactured, made in the Capitol like the damned house and yourself.

 

* * *

 

"I'm sorry, Prim." Gale says, head hanging low. You have never felt bigger, taller than him until now. "I'm so sorry."

A nonchalant smile. It only makes him more nervous, you figure. 

"It's alright, Gale." You say. "It's alright."

You realize it does not matter anymore, after all.

You are no longer part of the statistics. A scatter point far off the median. 

Alone.

 

* * *

 

"So, you are Primrose Everdeen."

You remember two of his tributes have died because of you.

You crank up your grin to a mocking one, overcompensating. "They say I am the next Finnick Odair, you know."

Finnick Odair laughs, but there is no humour in his eyes.

"And that is what we are afraid of. "

 

* * *

 

Haymitch finds you sprawled on the floor, blood drying up in chunky patches on your torn night gown, cuts of varying depths decorating your hands and legs like war trophies.

Except that there is no war greater than the one within.

The Capitol can always fix anything on the outside, but they never bother with the inside.

Bathroom mirrors shattered, bouquets crammed down the toilet bowl, scented papers torn and scattered all over. You can still smell the blood from that lone blooming white rose. You did not manage to flush it away.

Haymitch does not say anything. He undresses you from your tattered garment and dries you with a towel. With deft hands, he dresses your wounds, and you hope it temporarily reminds him that his hands are capable of saving, too.

You are donned in comfy pajamas and he carries you to the bed. The last thing you remember before you drift off is him throwing all the remaining flowers in the fireplace.

Amidst the smell of charred roses, you dream of Peeta, standing in the forest clearing. His ash blond hair shines under the light rays that permeate through the canopy.

He seems happy, at ease.

It reminds you of how he ought to be.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> First fanfic I posted on ao3 woohoo! A bit nervous but excited nonetheless haha. 
> 
> Sort of want to give Prim some due credit, really. Always think of her as a fierce character much like her sister, but consider the novel is told from Katniss' POV she will always be the gentle little sister of hers. So yeah, wanna try a different perspective. Pretty sure the AU concept is not new, but yeah, giving it a shot! 
> 
> More to come for THG! Love this series, ahhh!


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